


A Beasts Bounty

by Danse-or-Farkas (Markond)



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Gen, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-10
Updated: 2019-11-10
Packaged: 2021-01-26 13:29:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21374899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Markond/pseuds/Danse-or-Farkas
Summary: A simple job, to kill a minor Reachman warlord during the feast of the Hunter Prince, does not go entirely to plan.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 5





	A Beasts Bounty

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LemurMonster](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LemurMonster/gifts).

Dom’nir rolled over onto his stomach, scrambling forward on his elbows and leaning just slightly over the edge of the bluff to get a look at the encampment. The sun had only just set, the sky still stained orange through pink and purple at its edges, and the Reachmen were all too absorbed in their preparations to take due care they were not being watched.

“They are still not there.” He huffed, rolling back over onto his back and brushing dried grass from his chest. With a mild frown that flickered quickly to mischief he picked a barbed seed from his fur, flicking it away toward Sa’rah.

“And they won’t be. Not yet. Not until the moons rise.” The seed landed neatly in her lap, a sharp look of accusation flashing across her features before she swatted it away.

The wind changed direction and the smoke from the encampment, thick with spice and boiled animal fat, began to drift over. There was something bittersweet and unsettling underneath it, and it made Dom’nirs fur rise like the prickle of being watched but without the eyes. He knew the taste of magicka on the air and worse he knew by the bitter salt and lightning to it that it was not the good kind either. This was dark, pulling power from places that did not give it without a dire cost.

He let the shiver run through him, shaking it free like icy rain drops from his fur. A snort from Sa’rah confirmed that she had felt it too, though it had risen no visible response in her.

She sat with legs crossed, just tilting her head each way the wind turned and searching for any scent out of place. It would not do well to alert the prey to their presence, though if it happened she would not regret what had to be done. She ran her tongue over a set of too sharp teeth over and over again, pushing the hunger back down until they shrank back and the beast retreated back to its proper place under her command.

A little under an hour passed in silence. Dom’nir had at one point turned to say something, deciding otherwise when Sa’rah caught his gaze and behind the blue and green there was far too much moonlight white. Not a good sign, worse when Masser and Secunda where so full and bright. A prayer to Jone and Jode that they might pass Sa’rah up might have helped, Hircine more likely to answer but most certainly paying more rapt attention to the events below.

The heartbeat thudding of drums drew their attention.

The swell of bodies parted, and there was the target. He was a towering man, as crossed with burns and scars as he was painted with spirals of green and blue. He wore a deer skull for a crown adorned with too many antlers, a wrap of blood soaked furs and strings of bone scrimshaws around his waist. His people cheered and roared, silenced instantly by a simple raising of his hand. He spoke a few short words, and the festivities began.

They lit their pyres, throwing herb soaked animal fat atop the flames until it belched thick white smoke that made Dom’nir light in the head just from what little of it caught downwind.

The target found their place amongst the revelry, a throne of wicker and leather that raised him above the bloodshed and sacrifice, the screaming and carnage of their prayers to the Hunter and the Hunted. Raised aloft he viewed them with mild curiosity, an occasional pointed gesture choosing which of the many children of the Reach where to be sacrificed. He chose one, youthful and full of vigour, and he fell to his knees with tears of joys as his brothers and sisters fell upon him with flint knives and bared teeth.

Dom’nir contemplated the chaos and insanity below, drew his bow and took aim. No need for words, and less need for bloodshed beyond what they were happy to inflict upon themselves. If they were lucky they would not even realise their leader was dead until the pair had already scrambled away.

He chose an arrow from the selection he had brought for the task, settling on the nasty kind with fragile hooks that would do great harm to flesh and worse again if foolishly pulled free by a well meaning healer. He doubted it would be necessary, the mark was near naked and all too likely to die mercifully quick the moment the arrow struck, but an extra step to guarantee success was never one to be regretted.

He rose, one knee raised and one to the ground to secure himself, until he could clearly see the target. He pulled back the bow string, exhaled long and slow, and readied to loose the shot the moment the wind stilled.

The wind did not still, a howling gust carrying a thick plume of oily smoke up to their vantage point. It stung his eyes, coppery and vile when he finally breathed it in.

Through the smoke a hand caught his wrist, his first instinct to reach across himself for his blade.

Sa’rah tried to say something, likely a warning, a guttural sound coming instead through teeth too sharp and a mind lost to instinct. She gripped his wrist tighter before forcing herself to let go.

She staggered back, tearing at the catches and releases of her armour, plates and leather fastenings falling away.

Dom’nir had seen it as a distant thing before, always averting his gaze and letting her turn with at least a minimum of privacy. She had always claimed it was a choice to be the beast, one entirely in her hands, her control. It was sometimes hard to believe she was its master sometimes, there would always be that moment of doubt when looking into those moonlight bright eyes and seeing only hunger and rage.

He opened his mouth to say her name and found himself instantly pinned to the ground. Her hand was wrapped around his head, jaw held firmly shut, claws tearing into the soil either side of his skull. A single, easy, swipe of her thumb claw could have torn him open from shoulder to chin.

The change jolted and jerked, golden fur staining black as it grew thick and heavy. He had always imagined it would be a smooth, perhaps possibly even beautiful thing in its own way. That illusion was entirely shattered watching bone and muscle snap and tear, folding across itself into a new shape.

Sa’rah kept him held low as the change settled, a low rumble raising in her chest as she looked own at the camp, watching intently.

Dom’nir could only draw shallow breath through his nose, with each second longer the burning in his chest and skull growing worse, dazzling lights starting to flicker across his vision.

He just stared up at the sky, the stars growing brighter and more painful, the moons for the briefest moment seeming to be as red as a fresh kill on crisp snow.

The wind changed again, the smoking pyres and incense stacks plunging the camp into darkness, and with a rush of moving air Dom’nir could breath again as Sa’rah threw herself over the edge.

It took the Reachmen a little too long to realise that the screaming was not right, only when the laughter and joy had stopped did they recognise that their prayers had been answered. Hircine had indeed sent his gifts down upon them, but they had been deemed prey when they foolishly thought themselves otherwise.

When it had gone finally quiet Sa’rah returned, dropping the crown of antlers down beside Dom’nir as a trophy to prove the bounty was completed. It had not been asked for, but it was always a prudent measure and often secured their reputation as reliable and efficient. They had been promised silver for the death of that particular witch, a bonus very likely now that their clan and its grip over that tiny corner of the Reach had been shattered. Another would rise quickly to take their place but the Nords were always too pleased to keep up the appearance that the Reach was theirs, and theirs alone.

There had been a stream running through the forsworn encampment, enough that a short dip had cleared the worst of the gore. It had also given Sa’rah a precious moment to centre herself, meltwater still carrying the chill of the Jerral mountains cold enough to wash the heat and fire and passion from her mind and allow her to return fully to herself. Now there was only a few beaded trails of glistening pink where water and blood mingled and ran easily from her fur.

She took a cloth from her travel pack and wiped the last traces away, dressing quickly without once acknowledging Dom’nir was present.

It took a long minute to be certain her armour was secured, no harm done to it in the haste to get it off. Once done, armed and armoured once more, she finally turned to Dom’nir.

“We are done here.” She offered a hand to help him up, still laid flat and still staring up at the moons. When he finally looked at her he could see no trace of what she had been and done, she was as calm and still as a winter morning.

He almost hesitated, thought himself foolish for doubting her, and eagerly accepting her help as she groaned and dug in her heels to heft the weight of him up.

“So what now?” He ran his hand through the hair atop his head with a too wide grin and a drawn breath still a little shaky, catching a handful of those barbed seeds that had stuck themselves there. With a sly look he flicked them in her direction.

“We get paid.” She did not seem impressed in the slightest, simply rolling her eyes and setting off back toward Markarth.


End file.
